


hell-bent on taking you

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Haunting, Horror, Lady lives, Mutual Pining, Paranormal, Past Character Death, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, babies team up to fight a ghost with their dogs, background Sam/Gilly, background briemund, background throbb, but it's not really scary, halloween fic, inspired by Heart Shaped Box by Joe Hill, of course I managed to jonsa-fy the premise of the horror novel I'm reading
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: SELLING A GHOST! THIS IS NOT A JOKE!If you’re here you’re somewhat interested and I’d encourage you to keep reading…Once upon a time, Jon Snow’s band “The Detoned” found success by leaning into the macabre. Although the band’s long gone and it’s always been an act for him, Jon’s trapped in this image of a Satan-worshipping hedonist when he’s anything but. He’s just a jaded has-been rock star who’s going through life on autopilot after one too many losses.Still, there are more benefits than downsides… although the downsides are downright annoying. Fans send him things that send shivers up his spine; real skulls, “potions” in glass bottles, and things so disturbing they get reported to the police. But none of it isreal.Jon doesn’t actually worship Satan. Jon doesn’tactuallybelieve in ghosts.Until his assistant wins a bidding war for a haunted object and brings a malevolent spirit into Jon’s life. A ghost that won’t rest until Jon’s in the ground, too.Enter exorcist Sansa Stark.





	1. for the horses

If it wasn’t for Satin, the suit never would have entered his life. But if it wasn’t for Satin and the suit, Sansa wouldn’t have entered his life, either.

“I thought you’d like it, boss,” Satin said, eyes bewildered behind the smoky makeup, lip twitching a bit as if he was still amused despite his employer’s obvious anger.

“A thousand dollars…” Jon blinked, wondering how Satin couldn’t see how insane this was. “On a _suit.” _

But Satin had quirked an eyebrow and gone on about the budget and even pulled up a spreadsheet, offered to call the record label.

“It’s fine.” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, weary.

“I can try to return it. But I’m pretty sure the seller had a no return policy.” Satin shrugged. “E-bay.”

“It’s fine,” Jon repeated. Most of the time, he didn’t mind Satin—liked him really. Just as he liked Sam. His two assistants balanced each other out; Satin was forceful and clever but defiant, Sam good-hearted and devoted but timid. But Satin had a tendency to do things like this; he was fond of the phrase “ask for forgiveness, not for permission.”

“I think you’ll change your mind, once you see it,” Satin said, and it took a moment for Jon to realize he was talking about the suit.

“Why’s that?” Jon didn’t really care. The whole macabre thing was an act, even if he had done it for too long to claim it was an accident. But Satin was someone to talk to, especially when the loneliness struck.

“It’s for real.” Satin gave a little satisfied smile. “I have a feeling about these things.”

* * *

Later that day, long after lunch when Jon was “writing music” in the library—really, just plucking at the guitar strings tunelessly when all he wanted to do was go out and play with Ghost—his phone beeped with a text from Satin. Although Satin worked from the office Jon created in his home a few years ago, when he’d been too depressed to leave his house, it wasn’t unusual for them to communicate via text. Satin was smart enough to know that Jon didn’t always want to be dragged into long conversations… if ever.

The texts were a few screenshots of the E-bay description of the suit. Jon barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes at Satin’s following message, amused despite himself: _Tell me this doesn’t creep you out! ;) _

Jon clicked onto the first screenshot to expand it.

_SELLING A GHOST! THIS IS NOT A JOKE! _

_Buy my father’s ghost! If you’re here you’re somewhat interested and I’d encourage you to keep reading—this is the real deal! If you’re not, then just fuck off. Serious inquires only. Please help my family by taking this spirit off our hands._

_My father was a great man in life. A real man, a provider and a protector. You may be thinking, if he was so great, why would you want to get rid of his ghost? Well, the truth is I don’t want to be rid of him, but I work with horses, and his spirit is so potent it’s disturbing them. If I don’t find a new home for my dad’s ghost, I’ll lose my livelihood._

_He died three months ago. I saw him for the first time the very day we buried him in the ground. He was in his favorite suit, his Sunday suit. I couldn’t deny it was him. But his eyes… as much as I love my dad I can’t deny they scared the shit out of me. They were black scribbles. Eyes that weren’t for seeing anymore._

_He didn’t talk to me the first time he appeared or any time since. Hell, maybe if he does say something, I’ll take this listing down. But I see him. He walks around the second floor of the house. The horses are upset, the cats won’t go upstairs, and the whole house is cold, but it’s worst in the guest bedroom, where he used to stay when he visited. That’s where I have his Sunday suit hanging. I can’t explain it, but I feel like his spirit is attached to that suit. _

_Like I said, I’m torn about this. I want to keep him. I suffered too much loss in my life, and I have no family left. But dead is dead and I can’t keep living life if I got no money, so I have to do it for the horses. Besides, I’m thinking of adopting, and I’m not bringing any child into a haunted house… even if it is just my dad doing the haunting._

_This is the only thing I can think of. The world is full of people who want to believe in the afterlife… well, I have your proof right here. If you buy my father’s ghost, I will send you his Sunday suit. Like I said, I believe he’ll follow that suit. _

_Happy bidding!_

It sounded horrifying, convincing; unique even, with the detail about the blacked-out eyes. A well-told story, but there were a lot of good storytellers in the world.

_Oh well._ If the record label wanted to waste their money on this shit, they were welcome to do so. Personally, Jon thought the money would be put to better use going to a charity—better PR, too, since that’s all the executives seemed to care about—but—

His attention snagged on a name. _There’s no way. _He zoomed in on the seller’s name, his phone suddenly an inch away from his nose to look closer.

_Wilde. _Her name.

Jon’s breath came quicker. He searched his memory, unearthing and unbinding dozens of buried boxes he’d never wanted to look upon again, needing to _know_—yes— _Kryeva Wilde. _Her mother’s name.

He ran across the house so quickly the screenshot was still open on his phone when he stopped. Jon tucked that hand behind his back, suddenly afraid of exposing this to Satin—Satin, who sat in the chair behind his desk, blinking quizzically at Jon who hovered in the doorway.

“Return it.”

His voice was rough, a tone he never liked to use with his employees. Satin looked more surprised than displeased.

“The suit?”

“Yes.”

“… I can’t.”

Jon scraped a hand over his mouth, his heart pounding too fast. He wondered if Satin _knew, _if this was some kind of macabre joke. It _was_ October. Satin was a goth; loving the sound and the spirit of The Detoned was what drew him to Jon in the first place. But Satin wasn’t in his employ back then, when he’d had and lost Ygritte, and there wasn’t a way for him to know. Jon had long ago removed all the pictures. He didn’t talk about it.

“Try.”

Satin didn’t look pleased when he responded with a dull, “Okay.”

Jon often wondered how different things would be— the pricked finger and the ruined hand, the suit that was always laid out on his bed no matter how many times he stuffed it in the closet— if it had been Sam working that day instead of Satin.

* * *

When Jon was a child, he didn’t think this would be his life at thirty three. He’d dreamt of being a musician, yes, ever since he first held a toy ukulele and pretended it was an electric guitar. As a teenager, he’d leaned more towards acoustics, soulful tunes that expressed everything he couldn’t with words. But his prepubescent mind wasn’t able to picture this kind of success. Or what it would cost to get it.

They’d tried the soulful route, he, Robb, and Theon. The Detoned. Twenty two and full of dreams and self-importance and just enough teenage angst left over, they’d spent fevered nights writing ballads and playing in shitty bars for pennies. Those were their best songs. They hadn’t created anything comparable since.

The first shift happened when they were looking for a drummer, trying to get serious, and found Tormund instead. He was a good singer, good enough to provide Robb’s background vocals anyway, and a wicked bassist. They still had no drummer and somehow Theon had convinced Robb that they didn’t need two guitarists; that Jon could be the drummer. Jon liked playing drums—_loved_ it, actually, loved the powerful reverberations and the anger and the energy, the way it took his whole body to play. But it hadn’t been his choice. He wasn’t consulted. It had been decided for him.

A rift had opened up between him and Theon and Robb too, after that. In hindsight, it didn’t matter much. Didn’t matter much at all.

But suddenly things were _happening, _things Jon didn’t have any say over, and then they had a manager (once again, Jon wasn’t consulted) and that manager was telling them they should be some sort of devil-worshipping band. So then they _were_ some sort of devil-worshipping band.

Then it was all about their _image, _not the music. The music was only part of it, a smaller and smaller part the more famous they became. It was about being obsessed with death and blood, about perpetuating rumors of Robb’s and Theon’s relationship, about being the men who’d sold their souls to the devil. _Well, we sold something. We sold out. _

Then everything had fallen apart, and Jon found himself alone in a huge house in Malibu, surrounded by gold records and creepy objects that made the house—and his life— feel like it wasn’t his.

* * *

The suit arrived on Monday. Satin quit on Tuesday.

Well, he didn’t even bother to quit. Jon was in the kitchen making a late breakfast when Sam called to explain he’d be delayed about a half an hour. “I wasn’t expecting to come in today and Gilly isn’t home yet…”

“I don’t understand,” Jon cut off his rambling. “Why are you coming in today? Satin’s working.”

“Oh, uh… I guess I thought you’d know. Maybe you should talk to him?”

Jon was already walking to the home office. He’d seen Satin there this morning, less than an hour ago, through the window from the yard when he and Ghost had passed through to go on their walk.

Satin wasn’t in the office but his car was still in the driveway. Jon could see the shape of him in the driver's seat. Satin didn’t turn to look at him as he approached, staring blankly through the windshield, even when Jon rapped his knuckles against the window.

“Satin?” The irritation and confusion he’d felt disappeared completely into concern. Satin looked unwell. His face wore an unnatural pallor and there were circles under his eyes that didn’t look like they were from the dark makeup he liked to wear. He was shivering.

“Satin… are you okay?”

“I’m going home,” Satin replied after a moment, still looking straight ahead. Though it was only three words they were delivered in a strange monotone, slow, so unlike his usual way of speaking.

“Okay,” Jon said. “That’s fine.”

“I’m not coming back.”

Jon huffed through his nose. _What the fuck?_ Satin was a student, and Sam was a father of a toddler with a wife in school. Satin and Sam shared the job because neither of them could work full time.

Still, he tried to be patient. “Why? I thought you liked the job.”

“I can’t tell you why. You won’t believe me. I can’t come back.”

“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

“I called Sam.”

“That was considerate of you,” Jon said, a bit of spite slipping out. “You were going to leave without even telling me you quit?”

“I didn’t want to call him!” Satin’s strange monotone broke, a tremor shaking his voice, his words coming quicker and more desperate. His shaking became violent. “I didn’t want Sam to come, but he made me! He wants us both! Don’t let Sam in the house, don’t, he has a kid. He’ll hurt him.”

Jon stood in open-mouthed shock. He struggled to make sense of his words. “Who? Satin, what are you talking about?”

“The ghost. The dead man in the suit.”

Despite the ridiculousness of what Satin was saying, Jon didn’t want to laugh. He was too alarmed; too sad. He knew Satin believed in this stuff. But this was too far—the boy had made himself quit his job, made himself physically sick.

He wanted to tell Satin that ghosts weren’t real, that a suit couldn’t hurt him. But he knew those words were insensitive, were words that Satin wouldn’t believe anyhow.

“Satin… no matter what you think happened—”

“He’s here for you. That post… me finding it… it wasn’t an accident.” Satin shuddered. He still wasn’t looking at Jon. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry I brought him to your house.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. There’s nothing—”

“I know what he wants. He looked right at me, with those black eyes. I wish… I wish he didn’t look right at me. I knew everything then. I felt it. He told me. He whispered it in my mind.”

“Satin—”

“He’s Ygritte’s grandfather. He’s here to avenge her. He says it’s your fault.”

Jon’s breath had frozen in his lungs. He did nothing when Satin pushed his car into reverse. As he slid by Jon, Satin finally looked at him—only for a moment. A bare glance. “Your eyes are like his.”

Jon was still standing there when another car slowly slid onto the paved driveway until it stopped, when Sam climbed out of it and stood in front of him, out of breath and concerned.

“What’s going on? What’d I miss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well well well! I'm ashamed to say I have about eight jonsa halloween fic ideas but this one wrote itself the fastest. so here we are! leave a comment!


	2. creeping cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouragement dears! Check out [the accompanying photoset on tumblr!](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188183654881/hell-bent-on-taking-you-selling-a-ghost-this)

_He googled it. _It was the only explanation. Sitting at the kitchen island, staring off into space, Jon tried to think of the ways Satin could have learned of Ygritte and her grandfather’s suit that now sat in the foyer, still in its barely-opened shipping box.

The internet held skeletons for Jon, a graveyard him and Ygritte; pictures, blog posts, interviews. Yes, Jon never talked about her, but Satin could have easily learned of their relationship from a quick google search. He could have put two-and-two together when he read the E-bay listing.

But the details of Ygritte’s death— of those Jon had been fiercely protective, ensuring the tabloids and the blogs never knew a thing.

_He’s here to avenge her. He says it’s your fault._

“Did you tell him?”

Sam looked up from across the kitchen island, where he was fiddling with the kettle. “I’m sorry?”

Jon shook his head, already feeling guilty for the question. Sam wasn’t one for gossip, and besides, he wouldn’t broach a topic if he thought it would bring Jon pain.

“Never mind.”

Sam shrugged, then shook his head morosely. “I can’t believe he’s gone, just like that. He didn’t say why? Does he have another job?”

Jon hadn’t recounted to Sam the disturbing conversation in the driveway. “I don’t think so. Seemed like a… spur of the moment decision.”

“Good thing he’s got you for a boss.” Sam quirked a smile. “A lot of people wouldn’t have just… let him go like that.”

For a reason he couldn’t explain, Jon suddenly felt compelled to speak. “You can go, too, for any reason. I wouldn’t hold you back.”

Sam frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Jon sighed and shook his head dismissively once more, but Sam ignored the kettle and looked at Jon with concern. “Are you feeling okay, Jon?”

He sighed. He couldn’t believe the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

He looked down at his lap, wrapping his arms around himself unconsciously, feeling vulnerable as he waited for the answer.

Sam, bless him, didn’t mock—he answered in a very decidedly casual way. “I’m open minded. I think it’s arrogant to think you know everything about the world… there’s so many mysteries.”

Jon looked up, feeling a bit lighter, although the answer wasn’t reassuring. “You calling me arrogant?”

Sam laughed. A few minutes later, Jon was alone in the kitchen sipping the chamomile tea Sam made. But he still felt chilled to the bone.

* * *

“It’s freezing in here.”

On Friday Sam was bundled in what looked like two winter sweaters—the second one may have been a Christmas sweater—shivering as he put a pot of soup to boil. Jon wasn’t hungry. He hasn’t really eaten much since Tuesday, and it should be painful, the hunger—but he glimpsed the lumpy slop of burnt orange in the pot and grimaced. _What is that… carrot stew? _It looked like vomit.

He wasn’t sleeping well, either. His nights were hours of fitful tossing, and every time exhaustion wrapped its silky fingers around him and started to drag him down to sleep, an irrational fear would prick him like a pin in his side. His eyes would snap open, bleary and burning and painfully awake, and he’d stay that way for a few more hours until Ghost put his leash in his mouth.

The dog was Jon’s saving grace; reaching out in the middle of the night and feeling Ghost’s warm fur under his palm kept him from going insane from exhaustion. He was the only warmth; the heated electric blanket did nothing to keep out this new, overwhelming chill.

So Jon sat on the kitchen counter, unshaven and red-eyed and _tired, _a bowl of soup that looked rancid in front of him.

“I think that’s gone bad,” Jon warned as Sam started to spoon it into his mouth.

“I don’t think so. Tastes good.”

_Doubtful. _“I haven’t gone shopping...”

Sam rolled his eyes a bit as if to say, _no shit Sherlock. _“I brought this from home.”

Jon stifled a sigh as he brought a spoonful to his lips. He couldn’t push the bowl away now.

“I think you need a trip,” Sam said decisively. He’d already said his piece a couple days ago, commenting on Jon’s obvious dishevelment, equal parts concerned and critical.

“That’s a good idea.” Jon didn’t know where the impulse came from, but it was the same quiet compelling that insisted on keeping Ghost in his bed at night. “I think I’ll book something this afternoon. I’ll probably be gone for a week, so… no need to come in on Monday.”

Sam gave him a funny look. “The inspector’s coming in Monday. Someone has to be here.”

“Inspector?”

“Yeah. It’s never been this cold in here. Not even in winter. Something’s wrong.”

Jon couldn’t explain why the thought of someone else stepping foot into the house made goosebumps prickle all over his skin, made a well of irritation surge up in him.

“Okay. I’ll be here waiting for him. You don’t have to come in.”

Sam chuckled, although his head was bowed and his tone was decidedly uncomfortable when he said, “Trying to get rid of me?”

_Yes. That’s exactly what it is. _And he had no idea why.

* * *

Ghost wasn’t in his bed.

Jon woke in the middle of the night and felt the dog’s absence instantly, realizing what it was that woke him. For a moment all he could feel was resentment at having been woken from sleep after so many nights of little-to-no rest. Then he felt the chill, unbearable even under his pile of blankets, and with it a pang of alarm that woke him like a splash of cool water. _I need Ghost in the bed. _So he rose to find him.

The ground was colder than it had ever been under his bare feet, shocking him to the point of burning. He _felt _it, the cold, like a mist he was pushing through to take each step. As he wandered the hallway he occasionally skittered to a stop, forgetting what he was doing up in the wee hours of the morning, scratching his beard until he remembered— Ghost. He needed Ghost.

But he forgot more than he remembered, walking aimlessly from room to room like in a trance. All he knew was the cold. He followed it to its source like a strain of music he could hear getting louder and louder.

He was in the doorway of the library when he heard it—a floorboard creak within, then a sigh, as of someone settling. Alarm shocked him, waking him fully as he wondered _what the fuck am I doing here_, why couldn’t he really remember walking here—and where was Ghost?

And the intruder. He’d heard it, movement within the library, and he knew with all certainty that there was someone within.

He should have turned and went for his cell phone which was on his nightstand, or one of the little keypads in the walls installed by the security company, or perhaps a weapon of some sort. But he didn’t. The closest thing to a weapon in the house was in the library, he thought, the set of fire pokers by the fireplace.

So he walked in, drawn to the source of the cold.

There was something else there, he knew it instantly; not the intruder but a stillness, the wrong kind of stillness, the shocked stillness that followed in the few seconds after a crash of sound. His eardrums throbbed from the pressure of that dreadful silence.

Jon walked deeper into it, the cold increasing by degrees with every step he took. The fireplace came into view. An old man sat in the antique armchair facing the grate.

His pulse skittered, and Jon suddenly realized he was gasping, shivering, the silence around him dissolving to allow him to hear these things. He turned his head so as to only see the old man from the edge of his vision. It felt like a matter of life and death that he didn’t look straight at the old man, that he didn’t risk making eye contact with him. The old man couldn’t know that he’d seen him; a ridiculous thought, considering he was standing two feet away, not exactly being quiet. But the old man couldn’t _know; _Jon couldn’t let him know he’d seen him.

_But I don’t see him. I don’t. _

There was no one there.

But there the old man sat, with his head bowed, the short white bristles of his hair shiny in the moonlight. Jon recognized his suit he wore instantly; it was the one from the screenshot on his phone, it was the one sitting in the box in the foyer.

The old man’s eyes were closed. At that, Jon felt relief. _As long as he doesn’t look at me._

It was a struggle to turn around, to walk back to the door of the library like nothing had happened. He was careful not to run, not to give off any signs of alarm, besides his harsh breathing that he couldn’t for the life of him control. He wouldn’t run, because he wasn’t scared, because there was no old man.

Somehow he let himself back into his bedroom, back under the covers, and somehow Ghost returned to him, and somehow he fell asleep, with both hands tucked under Ghost’s great body, under his weight and his warmth.

* * *

Jon woke the next morning with a groggy head as if he’d been drinking all night, and as he walked to the master bathroom he saw the old man again.

He was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, except Jon had gotten rid of that rocking chair because it was Ygritte’s. His head was lowered again, and Jon somehow found it within himself to be grateful for that as dread deadened his nerves. Morning sunshine filled the room now, and Jon couldn’t deny that he saw him, sitting in the chair that didn’t exist. The chair looked solid, but the old man didn’t, translucent and shivering at the edges in the light.

As soon as Jon noticed him he looked away, not wanting to see him. He had the crazy thought that if he kept his head down and held his breath, the old man wouldn’t notice him walking past.

_Just don’t look at me. Please, don’t look straight at me. _

* * *

When he left the bathroom the old man and the chair were gone. Clarity struck him like a cold bath. Either there was a ghost of an old man in his house or he was losing his mind.

Either way, he had to get out of there. In a few minutes Jon had stuffed a duffel bag full of Ghost’s food and necessities and packed it and the dog into the truck, ignoring Ghost’s loud protests.

But then he sat in the driver’s seat, completely still, the sensation unfamiliar. He hasn't drove a car in two years.

But that didn’t matter. It was just him, anyway.

_And Ghost._

His hands shook on the steering wheel, unable to do anything else, and when he saw the bony knee in the suit pant materialize in the seat beside him he jumped out like the car was on fire.

He’d suspected it, anyway, that the ghost would follow him anywhere, that it wasn’t the house he was haunting. It was him.

* * *

The next two days were a mass of tension as Jon navigated his home as if he were the intruder. He peeked around corners, he trembled at the slightest sound. But the old man remained, bent over, always sitting, his head in his hands as if he was disappointed.

Jon didn’t care how he sat. It didn’t matter to him if the old man stared at him as soon as his back was turned, so long as he didn’t look him in the eye, and besides, there was no old man.

* * *

Jon couldn’t relax, but he pretended to. He walked Ghost every morning, he lifted weights in his home gym, he prepared meals he didn’t eat, he walked from room to room like someone with a semblance of a schedule. A charade he carried on for himself alone.

And the old man.

_I should be losing it. _The thought came to him as he rushed through his shower, afraid he’d pull back the curtain and find the old man on the toilet.

On Monday morning, he came close. After his shower he saw, instead of the boxers and robe he’d thrown onto his bed, a green summer dress laid out. His heart lurched so painfully he had to grab the wall to steady himself.

_Ygritte. _

She hadn’t owned many dresses like that, hadn’t owned many dresses at all, and Jon recognized it instantly. Juniper green with fluttery sleeves that had bounced as she'd walked; it had been a windy day. Her hair had been loose, the way she’d preferred to wear it, and even the wedding of one of Jon’s bandmates couldn’t persuade her to consider a different style. No one cared, least of all Jon. She had looked _lovely. _She had looked like herself.

Jon stood leaning against the wall, his breath coming short. The memories were too strong; instead of October it was summer, it was the day Tormund swore his love to Brienne in the woods. It was the night he’d danced with Ygritte until his feet hurt, spun her round and round and watched that pretty skirt swell around her freckled legs.

Jon couldn’t take another step closer to the bed, didn’t think he could bear to touch it and feel the fabric between his fingers. Or would it be worse to reach for it and find nothing there?

Instinct seized him, furious and uncompromising, marched him down to the home office. He was skimming through the home office’s computer when he remembered he didn’t need the E-bay receipt to contact her. He had Kryeva Wilde’s number saved on his phone.

She picked up on the second ring. “I been waiting,” she croaked.

It was barely dawn; she could have been groggy from sleep. But Jon suspected she’d been hitting the bottle. Somehow this softened him, eased his fury a bit. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to call,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Now that he had her, he didn’t know what to say. _Why’d you send me your dead dad’s ghost? _He sounded like a lunatic, even in his mind, even with the events of the last week in his memory. Yet—she’d been expecting his call. That meant she knew he bought the suit.

_It wasn’t an accident, _Satin had said, and it seemed he was right. Maybe he was right about everything.

“What did he look like… your father?”

“You aren’t gonna ask me how I am?” Her voice had gone easy and pleasant, but too far that way, touched with mockery.

“No.”

She snorted. “Why don’t you tell me what he looks like, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

Jon dragged a breath through his nostrils, trying to calm himself. If it was anyone else… _anyone _else… but this was Ygritte’s mother. Even with the poison of loss and blame between them, he couldn’t disrespect her.

She spoke first. “He came to you, didn’t he?”

“Ms. Wilde…”

_“Ms. Wilde!” _She cackled like it was the funniest joke. “You fucked and you killed my daughter… but you’re still that polite little English boy.”

“I didn’t _kill_ her.” It was hard to say the words. For the longest time, he didn’t believe them.

“If she never met you, she woulda been alive,” Kryeva hissed. “In my book, that means, you killed her.”

“It was an accident,” he whispered. They’d gone through this song and dance many times, though never with a ghost between them. It didn't get any easier. 

“An accident? What kind of accident would take _her,_ and not you? My baby girl? My _only _girl?”

Her words had gone garbled and feverish towards the end. Despite everything he found himself worried for the woman, alone and getting older and drinking too much.

“Ms. Wilde… I don’t know what kind of trick you’re playing with that suit… but I’m sending it back. And you should find a way to take care of yourself.” He tacked it on at the end, not at all tactful but he didn’t know how else to say it. “It’s what Ygritte would have wanted.”

“Fuck you… like you care. Like _Jon Snow, _of all people, cares.”

“I do.”

“Send it back,” she spat. “Go ahead. He won’t come with it. No returns. No exchanges.”

She said the last bit sadly, he thought, or was he imagining it?

“Do you want him back?”

“Thought you said it was a trick.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“I… don’t know what to think.”

“You’ve seen things,” she said. “You know it’s real, how _real _he is. You know it’s out of our hands now.”

His mind thrummed. “What do you mean by that? How’s it out of your hands?”

“You think I know how to—how to— take care of a ghost? Let alone a ghost who wants me dead?”

His mind stilled, going calm. He knew this already. A part of him had known. “Is that what he wants?”

“He wants justice. He wants justice for his granddaughter, taken too soon from this world.” Her voice had gone watery and bitter again. “You can’t run. Wherever you go, there he’ll be. You’re going to die, Jon Snow, just like she did.”

Jon didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

When she spoke again after god knew how long, it was disjointed. “I bet it’s cold there… ice cold… well… it’s only right.”

“How do I get rid of him? Just tell me that.”

“I don’t know.”

He couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth. “Please. I _loved _her, I…. You don’t want this.”

“What the hell would _you _know ’bout what I want? Are you a mother?”

“Ms. Wilde…”

“Shut up, Jon, listen to me a sec.” She swallowed audibly. “What’s done is done. No one will help you. No one _can _help you.” Her voice sharpened with each word, growing clear but flat, a perfectly audible monotone. “You won’t live. No one who gives you comfort or aid will live. Everyone will leave you or die with you. That much is your choice… the rest is out of your hands. It’s only a matter of time until he looks at you, and you look at him. Then it will be done. You will die with his cold hand on your mouth. _Alone.”_

Somehow his rattled mind pushed words through his dry throat. “She didn’t die alone. I was there. Loving her. Past the end.”

But she’d already ended the call.

* * *

_No one who gives you comfort or aid will live._

The phone was cradled in his hand. He didn’t want to do it. But he had to. Jon had already told Sam not to come in today, but he wasn’t sure if the message stuck. 

If he didn’t call him now, with the phone still in his hand pulsing like a live thing, he might lose the courage. He might convince himself it wasn't necessary.

“Sam.” He had picked up on the second ring.

“Yeah, boss?”

That wasn’t right. It was Satin who called him that, never Sam. It was _him, _Jon realized with a chill, the old man, reminding him of what he had to do. Of the cost if he didn’t.

Satin had left willingly—Sam would never, not unless Jon pushed him away.

“You’re fired,” he said, his voice breaking despite using every ounce of his resolve. Then he spoke fast, too fast, needing to get the words out and needing this to be _over _as quickly as possible. “You’ll get a generous severance package from the label. Call them to work out the details, not me. Don’t call me. And don’t come back to the house.”

He hung up before Sam could say a word.

His hands were shaking. He pushed his head into them and glimpsed motion out of the corner of his eye—slow, back and forth, back and forth.

The old man was seated by the window of the office, looking out, once again in Ygritte’s rocking chair. He’d heard the whole thing.

A slew of emotions crashed through his bone-weary body—anger, fear, even hate. But desperation was strongest. More than anything, Jon wanted him to stay as he was. Not to stir his head, not to rise up. Not to open his eyes. Please, god, not to open his eyes.

* * *

The doorbell rang around noon. Jon guessed it was noon; the sun was high in the sky, the strong sunlight pouring in through the office’s windows. He hadn’t moved at all, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn over his phone to check the time.

He blinked a few times, trying to catch his bearings, when the doorbell rang once more. A third time.

_The inspector. _Jon wanted to stay where he was and hope the man would leave. But he wasn’t sure if Sam had given him instructions to come in if no one was home, and he couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger in the house. He’d have to meet him at the door and turn him away.

At the door, he pressed an ear to the wood and called out, “We don’t need anything today, thanks. We’ll call back to reschedule.”

“Jon?”

He frowned. It was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar. It wasn’t until he’d opened the door that he realized he was wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his hips.

It was a woman on his doorstep, brilliantly copper hair and a ducked head obscuring her face, then she looked up—and all the breath was knocked out of his body.

_“Sansa?” _

It was her— a face he knew well even if it was a while since he last saw it, dreamy blue eyes that had found their way into more than a few lyrics of songs that were never recorded.

“Hi, Jon…” She bit her lip, glanced at his face before letting her gaze skitter to the right of him, obviously trying not to draw attention to his state of undress. “Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have easily written like five more chapters of Jon alone with the ghost slowly getting driven out of his mind and absolutely _loved_ it, but we had to move it along and get Sansa in there...! Leave a comment!


	3. everything comes in at the eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was intending to complete this fic by Halloween but I've been sick this week and it put me behind on a lot of things. I hope I'll still be able to do it but... just in case!

Sansa was in Daenerys Targaryen’s house when she got the call. Well, several calls— her phone buzzed incessantly against her leg through the leather of her bag as Daenerys brought her a cup of tea. Sansa used to put her phone on silent when seeing clients, but not anymore. Not since the funeral.

Daenerys raised a pale eyebrow, huffing and crossing her arms in that way Sansa couldn’t really call _entitled_—she didn’t know her well enough to know if the woman _was_ entitled—but it seemed accurate. “Do you need to get that?”

The young widow was one of her recent regular clients, a new mother who had started seeing her deceased husband after she gave birth to their child. Sansa couldn’t imagine it. Her head and her heart ached every minute she spent in Daenerys’s parlor. Even after all these years, it didn’t get easier or make any more sense— being so intimately interwoven with strangers’ pain.

“I hope it’s not bothering you,” Sansa said, polite but firm. “But I can’t turn my phone off. I need to be accessible.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said after a moment, although she didn’t look pleased.

Sansa glanced at her phone to make sure it wasn’t family or Margaery—but it was an unknown number. That unsettled her. An unknown number could be the police, or a hospital.

She excused herself and walked a significant distance down the hall to ensure she wouldn’t be overheard before returning the call.

“Sansa Stark?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“I’m sorry for calling so many times,” the worried male voice said. “I’m Sam Tarly. I’m not sure if you remember me. I work… used to work for The Detoned…”

“Of course.” In truth, Sansa didn’t remember Sam too clearly, but she remembered a ruddy cheeked, friendly man. She remembered Gilly better; they’d been friends, before they lost touch.

“I’m with a client now, Sam. Can I call you back later?”

“Yeah… of course… sorry if I worried you.”

“Is everything okay?” She really should return to her client, but she was curious.

“Well…” She heard a deep breath. “No. It’s Jon.”

* * *

For the rest of the session in Daenerys’s upscale mansion, Sansa thought of Jon. She thought of what Sam said, but she thought of when she used to know him, too. She thought of him in eyeliner and distressed black jeans, the way he used to look back then, always shirtless on stage, muscles gleaming with sweat as his strong arms beat the air. Leather cuffs around his wrists.

Her mind was full of Jon even when she saw Daenerys’s husband’s hulking frame in the back of the room. Drogo. It was interesting to think of the two of them together. This gigantic man with full sleeves of tattoos crawling up his tree-trunk arms, long hair braided, and the petite blonde woman who sat before her. Disheveled wisps of hair hanging around her head, so light they looked like a cloud. She had been beautiful once, but death ruined her like it ruined everything it touched, giving her a gaunt look and perpetually red eyes.

From the moment Sansa walked through her door to the moment she left, Daenerys was crying. Sansa wondered if she spent every minute of her life this way, with no company but her infant and her tears. Sansa thought she’d seen every form of mourning, but this was the first time she sat witness to a woman weep openly for several long minutes as she nursed her child. Although she was impatient and demanding and thin-skinned Sansa felt for her. How could she not, when she felt her pain so intimately—when she felt her husband’s love for her?

It flowed through her, Drogo’s love, Drogo’s words, as she sat calmly sipping her tea. She sensed his eyes on her, hot as coal, but she didn’t look. She didn’t need to look to hear him, to repeat his words. “It won’t always be so hard… my moon, moon of my life.”

“It’s him,” Daenerys choked out through her tears. “I mean, I knew it was… I see him _right there…” _Her head turned to where Drogo stood. As soon as she moved he responded the same, his head snapping to face the wall, shielding her from his face. _From his eyes._ “But he won’t talk to me.”

“He can’t,” Sansa answered simply, reaching out to hold one of Daenerys’s hands comfortingly. “But he wants to. That’s what I’m here for.”

“He won’t look at me, either,” Daenerys pouted, stubbornness flashing through her teary eyes.

“He’s trying to protect you.”

“You’re saying it’d hurt me somehow… if he looked at me?”

Sansa nodded. “I have a lot of experience with this. It can be tempting when it’s someone you love visiting you, but the same goes for any spirit…” Sansa squeezed Daenerys’s hand to draw her gaze to hers, to make sure she was listening. _“Don’t_ look him in the eyes.”

“But…” Her chin wobbled, signaling a new bout of tears. “Love comes in at the eyes.”

_So do other things, _Sansa thought mournfully, thinking of Jon and his plight again. _So does everything. _

But she didn’t say that, choosing to placate her instead. “He already loves you.”

When Sansa left, she found herself impatient to get to her car, impatient to dial Sam Tarly’s number. She called him as soon as she was ensconced in the old Buick.

For long minutes Sansa sat in Daenerys’s driveway, listening carefully as Sam talked himself hoarse, panic and sadness taking turns in his voice. When she ended the call she gave herself a minute to process everything she’d just heard, hands shaking in her lap, before she lifted them to the steering wheel.

She didn’t know if she could see Jon again, if she could open that door. _But that’s the reason you _have_ to help him. _

Sansa stopped by her house first, to pack a couple bags and pick up a few necessities, before taking the long road to Malibu. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be returning soon.

* * *

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Sansa hadn’t expected Jon to roll out the welcome wagon, but from what she remembered of him, he was unfailingly polite. Then again, he was answering the door in a towel and glowering at her like she was the last person he wanted to see on his doorstep, so maybe her memory wasn’t entirely accurate.

“It’s nice to see you,” Sansa said, a bit sarcastically. She knew she’d chastised him when his cheeks turned a bit pink above his beard.

“You too,” he said in a much quieter voice. “You… you look nice.” He gestured at her with his hand though he wasn’t looking at her, and it made her stomach do a strange little flip.

“Thank you.”

He sighed, his eyes closing for a long moment. “It’s not a good time, Sansa. But I think you know that.”

She nodded. He was never one to skirt around the truth; she remembered that.

“Jon, can we talk inside?” She shivered as a cool breeze hit her; autumn was unpredictable in California, and the summery morning had turned into a chilly afternoon. She was in the sleeveless silk blouse she’d gone to see Daenerys in. “It’s a bit cold.”

He shook his head wryly, like she just said something funny. “It’s colder inside, trust me.”

She tried not to look at his bare torso and chest, at the trail of dark hair snaking into the towel. She arched a brow. _If it’s so cold, why are you almost naked? _

But she couldn’t say that. Instead, she drew in a breath to gather her strength. In her line of work, she was used to all manner of difficult clients. And that’s all Jon was—a client.

“So you know why I’m here.”

Jon shrugged. “I can guess. I know… what kind of work you do. But I don’t know how you knew… about…” His gaze dropped from hers, his face reddening as he tried to find his words.

“Sam called me,” Sansa said, watching Jon’s eyes widen before she’d even finished the short sentence.

_“No_… no.” He dropped the arm that was barring the entryway to cover his face with both hands. As he pulled them away Sansa noticed the dark, bruiselike shadows beneath his eyes.

“He wanted to help you.” Sansa knew the words were a poor attempt at comforting him, and if anything they made him look more desolate.

“That’s exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do.”

“Jon… what I understood from him is that you’re afraid. Not just for yourself. I promise, Sam won’t be hurt.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked at her with something close to mistrust. “How can you promise that?”

For a reason she couldn’t explain, her confidence evaporated. She felt shamed. “I…”

“How can you _know?_ I don’t… I’m not sure exactly what you do, Sansa, but you can’t know for sure.”

“It’s my _job.” _She took a steadying breath, forcing her voice to be even. “You’re right. I can’t know for sure, not until I do my initial assessment… not until you talk to me.”

“No.” Once again his hand was scraping over his face, over his beard. “No way.”

“Jon—”

“I’m not letting you in. No way in hell.”

Sansa plastered on a defeated smile. She shrugged. “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it. But I drove here all the way from Orange County and I’ve got my dog with me in the car—”

“Your dog can do its business out here. You need dog food?”

“Um…" She'd brought dog food with her, but maybe this would allow her entrance to Jon's home. "Yes?”

Jon nodded sharply. “I’ll bring some out.”

Sansa huffed. _“Jon._ Come on. Let me help you.”

“Sansa.” His eyes hardened so that he looked like a stranger. _He _is_ a stranger, _Sansa reminded herself, although it felt like a painful twist in her chest. The following words from his mouth were slow and deliberate. _“I don’t want you here.” _

He had already started to turn away when the door slammed shut in her face.

* * *

_Sansa Stark. Sansa fucking Stark at my door._

The last time he saw Sansa Stark was years ago. They were both in black, and her face was pale and drawn and her eyes so swollen and red she was barely recognizable.

Before that, he’d seen her only occasionally. Robb’s little sister with the pretty hair and the weird job and the enchanting, lovely eyes. There was a staggering depth to those eyes— beside their shape, big but tapered like a cat’s, besides their brilliance, that endless vivid blue. There was a profound sadness there, those eyes always glimmering as if bordering on tears, even if she was in the middle of laughing with her head thrown back at something Theon had said. Jon had seen it instantly. It broke his heart. It made her unforgettable.

But Sansa had kept her distance. She was in the audience for only a handful of shows, bright hair a beacon. More often she’d be backstage, having stopped by after the show, laughing with Arya. From what Jon understood she loved Robb but hated their music. Sort of like him.

Now she was _here, _years older though she looked the same. She was taller than he remembered, though that could have been her heeled boots. Her hair was shorter, the silky ends brushing the creamy skin of her collarbone—

_No. _He looked around him, as if caught doing something wrong, as if just thinking of her would endanger her, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.

That didn’t calm Jon. He was jittery as he slowly made his way to his bedroom and dressed, a bit nicer than he would have normally in fitted jeans and a gray button down. He rolled his eyes at himself but wasn’t willing to trade the outfit for sweatpants and a robe. _Just in case. _

Just in case of _what?_ There was no damn way he was going to let Sansa Stark into his house, into his life. He’d sooner die. And he probably would.

He spent the next few hours by the home office window, more or less, though he made a show of “working” on the computer. All he really did was pull apart the blinds an inch every few minutes to allow himself to look out at her car, the vintage black Buick he knew so well. He saw her, mostly in the driver’s seat, though a few times she’d be standing or pacing by the car, probably stretching her legs. He saw her dog, what looked like a husky that gave his heart a lurch, though the dog was bigger and darker than the snow-white Ghost.

Jon brought out the dog food as promised, placing a full bag on the stoop and closing the door before Sansa noticed and tried to talk to him. An hour later he put out a Tupperware container with turkey and swiss on rye and a pickle, and a water bottle. He doubted that would encourage her to leave but he couldn’t _not _do it, not when she’s been here several hours, waiting willfully in the cold because of _him._

When the doorbell rang he knew it was her, and for a few minutes he debated ignoring her. It would be harsh, probably harsher than anything he could say, and maybe that would get her to leave. But she rang the doorbell again and again and soon Ghost joined in with a chorus of barks, and Jon answered the door to stop the noise.

She looked unruffled and perfect, as if she hadn’t spent the last few hours cooped up in a car. Her lip quirked up as soon as she saw him. “You’re dressed.”

“Yes… I usually am.”

“Thanks for lunch.”

It was more like dinner—Jon hadn’t checked the time, but he supposed it was somewhere around 4 or 5 P.M. In just an hour or so the sun would start setting.

“I wanted to let you know that I brought a bag and I’m planning on staying here.”

_“What?”_

“From what Sam told me, I think it’s necessary for me to stay until my work is done. So unless you’re comfortable with me and Lady sleeping in the car… you could just let us in now.”

His bewildered mind snagged on one detail. “Lady? Is that your dog’s name?”

Her cheeks turned pink when she nodded, eyes downcast, her confidence fading a bit.

“Cool name.”

Her eyes snapped up to his. “You’re teasing me.”

“No. I mean it.” _What the hell are you doing? Why aren’t you forcing her to get out of here? _“It’s kind of like… the woman in Legally Blonde who named her tiny dog Bruiser... but the opposite. But the same.”

Sansa let out a surprised laugh. “Yeah… it is.”

Her eyes twinkled and her smile was stretched wide like she was more pleased than she was letting on. But he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t lead to her leaving. 

“Sansa… you have to go.”

The smile faded from her face, and Jon hated himself for the way he was treating her. This wasn’t the way he wanted to end things with Sansa Stark. This wasn’t the way he wanted her to remember him.

But at least she’d be away from him, him and the old man. At least she’d be alive.

“Actually, I do have to go,” she retorted, forced levity raising her voice. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Uhhh…” _Fuck. _She found the one thing he couldn’t refuse her. He couldn’t even question her, even if he _was_ half sure she was only trying to get into the house by any means, without looking like a complete asshole. Jon’s property was isolated, miles and miles away from any facility with a restroom.

Sansa was blinking expectantly as she awaited his answer. She already knew she won. _Stubborn, smart girl. _

“Alright,” he huffed, moving aside to let her in the house. He started walking down to the closest guest bathroom. “But this doesn’t change anything. You can use the bathroom then you have to—”

“Is this it? The suit?”

He turned, horror leaping up into his throat. Sansa was bent over the brown shipping box, her hands buried deep before he could even process her words. _Don’t touch it. _He leapt forward to stop her. _Don’t touch it Sansa don’t touch it!_

But he was too late.

“Ow!”

She pulled her hands back, raising one finger to her frowning face. A bright red bead of blood gathered at the tip of her index finger.

“Fuck.” Jon was already hunched over her, and he lowered himself to his haunches and gently took her hand between his to examine the wound. It looked like a small cut, so tiny he couldn’t see it beneath the blood, but alarm bells were going off in his brain. As discreetly as he was able, Jon turned his head to see if the old man was watching, if he’d caused this somehow.

_Of course he did. _He was nowhere to be found, but of course he did, it was _his_ fucking suit, and that was why Jon felt so sick he was going to vomit.

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” he said hoarsely, leading her by the injured hand he still held to his kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the Lady and Bruiser comparison goes to a [post on tumblr.](https://swainlake.tumblr.com/post/187991780459/elle-woods-calling-her-itty-bitty-chihuahua) Essentially, I didn’t come up with that one folks.


	4. let me in

The house _was _cold, so cold she was shocked by it despite Jon’s warning, and Sansa wrapped her free arm around herself as she followed Jon. The house was airy and open, made even more so with its sparse furnishings and décor, with exposed light-wood beams in the high ceiling. Her mind automatically compared it to Robb’s house, which became Robb’s and Theon’s house, that garish monstrosity atop the ocean cliffs. This was definitely nice, but not as needlessly expensive as that mansion—that _castle_—and everything within it had been.

She realized she’d never been inside Jon Snow’s house before—she wondered how long this had been his house. Was it his house back then, in The Detoned’s heyday? Was it the house he’d shared with his girlfriend?

Shivering and sad now, Sansa lifted herself onto the plush leather seat of the high barstool by the kitchen island that Jon directed her to. He disappeared into one of the cabinets.

“I’d offer you a coat…” Jon had stopped rummaging through his cabinet to look back at her, a wry twist to his mouth. “But it won’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing except…”

He trailed off and turned back to his rummaging, but Sansa wouldn’t let it pass. “Except what?”

“Except leaving,” he replied gruffly.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “That’s not what you were gonna say.”

“Except my dog,” he finally said, returning to her with a first aid kit he was already opening. “Ghost.”

“Umm…” She bit her lip to keep the smile from unfurling. “Your dog’s name is Ghost?”

“Yeah,” he replied matter-of-factedly, not looking at her, distracted by rifling through the blue box.

“You don’t think that’s… ironic?” 

She saw the moment he caught on, his hands stilling in the process of unwrapping the bandage, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he chuckled.

“Hilarious,” he said dryly, but it _was, _and Sansa found herself dissolving into peals of laughter.

Jon watched her, grinning, the bandage and the first aid kit forgotten for a moment. He shook his head. “You have a fucked up sense of humor, you know that?”

“So do you,” Sansa retorted, undeterred, still laughing. “I’ve heard stories.”

_“Have_ you…”

“I have.”

But her laughter died when Jon took her right hand and brought it close to his nose, inspecting the little cut with intense concentration in his eyes. Brow furrowed, he turned her hand this way and that, staining his hands with her blood. He swiped the tip of her index finger with an alcohol wipe so tenderly that Sansa, distracted by watching him, didn’t feel the sting.

“Sansa…” It looked like it pained him, this time, to say it. “You can’t stay. Every minute you’re here, you could get hurt.”

She levelled him with a look. “Jon, do you know how many spirits I’ve spoken to?”

His eye twitched. “No.”

“Six hundred and forty two.”

She took pleasure in the way his eyes widened. Maybe he was just shocked, or maybe she was getting to him. “Do you know how many of those I’ve successfully helped pass to the other side? Four hundred and six.”

“How?” The word seemed stolen from him, and his eyes widened when it had slipped from his lips. He raised both hands, a panicked craze overtaking his eyes. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me. If you tell me, if you _help_ me…”

He shuddered. Sansa looked at him, disarmed for once. Was Jon so afraid of this spirit, so afraid for _her,_ he didn’t even want to hear how to be rid of it?

“Jon…” Her tone must have revealed something because he looked up at her. “You can’t give up.”

“I don’t intend to… but you won’t be here to watch.”

“I wouldn’t be _watching,” _she bristled. It wasn’t the first time she’d faced belittlement, over her career or everything else, especially from a man. But somehow she hadn’t expected it from Jon. “I’d be doing something about it. Communicating with the spirit. Helping the spirit pass. Freeing you. You don’t seem to understand this is my job.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Well, I do feel insulted.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And guess what. I’m not leaving.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” An illicit thrill ran through her; she never behaved this way. It went against the way she conducted herself in business and in life—her mother had raised her to never go where she wasn’t invited, to never overstay her welcome. “I’m not leaving.”

“What—what about Lady?” he sputtered.

“You can go get her.” She tossed her keys onto the counter, watching them clatter against the granite with satisfaction.

“Sansa, you’re not… listening…”

Jon’s voice trailed off. His eyes slid from her, focusing elsewhere, then fixating on the ground, his mouth opening.

“Jon?” Elbows on the counter, Sansa leaned forward, whispering for a reason she couldn’t place. Cold trickled down her spine, not the cold of the afterlife but the icy prick of dread. “Is… is he here?”

It was strange for her not to know instantly, not to feel the shift in the atmosphere. Not to see the spirit first. But that could be examined later—for now Sansa swept the room carefully, keeping her eyes on the ground, looking for a pair of feet. From there she’d work her way up. 

She didn’t see anyone. Despite that, despite the fact that Jon had yet to answer her, she knew the spirit was there.

“Jon, whatever you do, don’t look him in the eyes.”

“I know that.” A shudder wracked his frame. “I don’t know how I know, but I do.”

Sansa understood. She remembered the first spirit that appeared to her, in the thick wood-framed mirror in the upstairs bathroom of her childhood home, which she’d painted teal herself. She was thirteen. She was brushing her teeth for bed when the old woman appeared, gurgling through an open, toothless mouth.

She’d known then, too, not to look her in the eyes. Somehow—through her shock and her fear, though all she’d done was crouch onto the floor and cover her eyes with her hands and scream— she’d known.

Sansa reached across the counter to lay her hands atop Jon’s, which were gripping the edges as if it was holding him upright. The counter was so wide she was on the edge of her seat, balanced precariously. She gripped his hands tight, surprising him into meeting her eyes. “Let me help you.”

She watched his mouth quiver as he breathed shallowly. “Alright.” He nodded once, twice, then raked a hand through his hair. “Alright. Let’s… get Lady. And your stuff.”

She took her keys from the counter and followed him to the door, unable to stop herself from smiling at her triumph. He held open the door for her and she passed through. A few steps later she felt uneasy; she stopped and turned on her heel to find the front door closing, Jon behind it.

“What the… Jon?!”

He tricked her. He tricked her out of his house. So—so—_childish. _She responded in turn, surprising herself by stomping one foot. Her anger and frustration felt like a tangible thing. _Doesn’t he get how reckless and idiotic he’s being, by pushing me away? _

“Jon! Are you _kidding _me?”

No response came, not right away. She was still standing there, fuming, when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

It was a text from an unknown number, but Sansa knew who it was.

_I’m sorry. Please leave. Leave me. And don’t come back. _

* * *

The old man was in the kitchen, him and his rocking chair that was once Ygritte’s but was now his, too tainted to remain hers in Jon’s mind. He was in the middle of the kitchen, rocking steadily, and Jon was so preoccupied with his own misery after shutting the door in Sansa’s face again that he almost didn’t see him. If the old man hadn’t been facing the window Jon might have _looked _at him, and the near-miss had Jon shaking like a leaf.

He left the kitchen immediately, calling for his dog. “Ghost? Ghost!”

He found Ghost in the sitting room with the grand piano, sprawled over the white settee, nearly blending in except for the red eyes. Jon squeezed himself into the few inches left on the seat, ignoring Ghost’s whines of disapproval. Wherever Ghost was, that was the best place for Jon. That was how Jon wanted to spend his final days— because that’s what they were, weren’t they?

His throat tightened. Not at the thought of leaving this world, though he’d be a liar if he didn’t say he was afraid of death. But at the thought of Ghost, alone in the house after he was gone. No one to take care of him. _I should ask Sansa to take him with her. _

His hand curled in Ghost’s fur, as if to say, _no. _The thought was abhorrent, foreign, incomprehensible. Ghost was the only one left… the only being in the world who gave him comfort and joy. The thought of being parted from him… _talk about preparing yourself for death. _

Jon took his cell phone out of his pocket and sat very still, summoning the courage to call Sansa. He wondered if she was still outside, if she left. Maybe she had. Maybe it would do no good to call her, if it would just bring her back.

Or maybe he was a selfish coward, talking himself out of doing the wrong thing.

* * *

In the foyer was the box, half the suit spilled out of it like the dying petals of a flower. It had been thoroughly inspected. Jon had torn into it, compelled by rage at his helplessness and at Sansa’s presence and her stubbornness and the way her name was beating against his mind. He had gone through every inch of fabric.

And here was another thing, another impossible thing. There was no pin, nothing that could have pricked her.

* * *

It was night when Jon rose to check the window, unbearably curious. He muttered an oath when he saw the Buick, headlights now on, hurting his eyes as he peered out.

As if she sensed him looking, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the phone, knowing it could only be a handful of people, and none of them he should be answering.

It was Sansa. The five letters were almost unbearably bright white against the black of his phone screen. This was her first time calling him. She hadn’t even responded to his text.

Knowing he shouldn’t, he picked up.

_“Jon…” _

It was a whine, barely his name. Instantly he was moving, running to her. “Sansa? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she groaned, the keen of her voice sinking his stomach. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What?” He was gripping his phone so tight his hand started to cramp.

“It hurts, really bad.”

“What hurts?” He was already in the foyer. He ignored the box and the suit, sensing with a ferocity that if he looked that way he’d tear the suit to strips, or maybe take it and throw it out the window.

Sansa didn’t answer, but it didn’t matter because he was out of the house and at her car door in seconds. He jerked it open and ducked his head in, dropping to his haunches, Lady barking at him from the backseat and shoving her body onto the car console at his intrusion. Jon ignored her, his attention on Sansa, his fingers turning her chin to look at her.

It was the first time he touched her, excepting the rudimentary examination of the cut on her finger in his kitchen hours before. Maybe they had shaken hands a few times, years past… but Jon knew they hadn’t. He was pitifully, painfully aware of how he and Sansa had been the type to nod at each other in greeting, feet of space between them, even when he was twenty two and she was nineteen and everyone was touching everyone, no concept of adult boundaries. They had never once embraced, not even at the funeral. And Jon thought he knew why that was, why they nodded at each other over the casket when they should have held each other, why they were careful not to touch, as he grasped her chin now.

Her skin was hot on the pads of his fingers, near scalding to the touch, clammy too, but underneath all that— soft, so soft in a way he couldn’t help but notice, and he disparaged himself for noticing such a thing at a time like this.

It was dark, but he could see clearly the sheen of sweat to her skin. Her eyes were a little glassy, focusing on him for a second and then drifting away. Her little whimper of pain shot right through his chest.

_“Sansa._ What happened?”

She held up her hand. The bandage he’d wrapped around the tiny cut on her index finger hours before was gone, and so was the cut. In its place was a white sore, the size of a pencil eraser, glistening with pus. Disbelieving, Jon touched it gently with his fingertip; Sansa hissed through her teeth. It was hot, throbbing.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Jon said through a dry mouth. _You haven’t driven a car in twenty five months. _But Sansa needed help.

“Bring the pin,” Sansa muttered. “Whatever pricked me, on the suit… it could help the doctors… it has to be poisoned.”

“There’s no poison.” He licked his lips and looked at her as the meaning of his words sunk in. “There’s no pin.”

She was wide-eyed for a moment before she closed her eyes against the pain. “Then we can’t go to the hospital.”

“What the hell. _No.”_ His arms wound themselves around her body, cradling her against his chest to move her to the passenger seat. She cried out as he lifted her out of the car. He winced. “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“Jon… don’t… be an idiot.”

He frowned, though he couldn’t feel much beyond white-hot concern for her. “I’m an idiot for trying not to hurt you?”

_“No._ You're an idiot for thinking the hospital is a good idea." 

He looked down at her, finding her somehow smiling slightly. He would have chuckled if there was any mirth left in his body. “I’ll be an idiot if it means you’ll be okay.”

It was a struggle to open the passenger door of the car while holding her, but he managed it. Lady was barking up a storm, growling as soon as Jon had the door open, then sniffing Sansa as he gently placed her in the passenger seat.

“Jon…” Sansa blinked sluggishly, her eyes staying closed longer than they were open. “You know they can’t help me there. I have to help… him… pass.”

_Help _him? Her language, though she meant nothing by it, set his blood to boil. That _fucker. _That fucker who did this to her didn’t deserve help.

“He did this to you,” Jon growled. His hands were fists at his sides.

Sansa’s face softened. “Then let’s get rid of him,” she said simply, smirking a bit, even now.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. He already knew what she wanted him to do, what he _had _to do now.

“Let me in, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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